And these greens wipe visine, in my eyes through this scene,
Where the people painted robots live to copy in their zines.
And here I am too, made to follow in this game –
During the lightings of the day where chameleon faces come to play
And I have to be like you, so they won’t cripple in my views.
Then here sits me…
Alone in my spec; where my sleeves come clean, and my ideas are wide –
And sanctuary is inevitably all around me in my walls
… but the people are not
(oh the people, the people).
I am here, with my feet bathing in measures and tapes,
Of infinite boundaries where personas can play and great new things are met
…but the still people are again not
(the people, fair people).
I can be Mountains of myself in clouds of thought…
And orbiting in random sporadic revelations are the works I’m leaving behind of them.
For bridges of New, do find me
…and yet the people do not, do not.
My ticking arm veins, come alive like steel trains,
From the pillowed oil sleeks which spot the confines of my brain...
But with no bodies to relinquish views –
Tornadoes gasp – Aloft in thought in my own room.
